Through The Mist
by xxurielxx
Summary: The youngest of his brothers, Alfred believes in justice, and he hates the inequality in the world. He worked hard to get into demon hunting, but everything goes wrong on his first hunt. Upon meeting one of the so called 'evil' demons, he learns that injustice exists not only in his village but the world around him. (AmeRus is main pairing, others included; M for language/violence)
1. Chapter 0

**Author's Note: **There are some original characters, but they don't play a large part in the overall plot. Most characters are out of character in some way or another. The biggest difference is in Francis, but I have my reasoning as to why he is so different. The pairings are Alfred and Ivan, Francis and Arthur, and only small hints of Gilbert and Matthew. Since I tend to go crazy with the amount of characters in my fanfictions, I'm limiting the number in this one. There is violence and swearing in this story. If there is a sex scene, it will occur much later (like chapter twenty out of twenty-two).

I hope you enjoy this story, but if you don't, please tell me how I can fix it. I'm known to have a very boring writing style, so I'm looking to help that.

disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia!

The hunt had started just as the pearly rays of new sunlight began to stretch out over the bay's horizon. The white light spilled over the village, illuminating each row of houses one by one by one. This natural glorious alarm roused from their sleep most of the house wives and older child, some of whom rushed out to watch the heroic hunters set out into the hazardous mist. Among the glossy-eyed onlookers stood a boy no older than eight. He absorbed all the happenings around him from the sound of mothers' hurried whispers of luck and the harsh assault of sea salt being brought in with the morning breeze.

Most importantly, he watched his elder brother's back being swallowed by the grey mist. Pride swelled in his heart as his brother's short blond hair faded into nothingness among the towering silhouettes of pine trees. This pride grew until it felt as those his chest would pour open; his mouth flew open. His cheer- his unwavering respect- came out in a simple, "go get them Arthur!"

His outcry was matched by those of others of similar youth who felt the same powerful emotions, but some, the mothers and wives, remained silent with their mouths molded into grim lines. In their eyes there was no pride, only fear and necessity. There was no promise their men would return; their children may go fatherless, or if they returned empty handed, they may be unable to afford the appropriate amount of food for the month. How many mouths would go unfed again if they couldn't manage a kill?

"Alfred," Amelia said, her voice hollow and soft, "why don't you head on home, little one?"

Alfred was hesitant to glance away from the mist. The grey rose and fell and twisted. The living wall bulged out, tempting to invade the village, but as soon as it touched the first dirt road, it retreated and rushed back to the safety of the trees. Finally, he turned to his mother with a wide, million gold coin smile. "I want to wait for Arthur, Mama. He's going to come back with a demon again, and I don't want to miss it. Again."

He still remembered the crushing disappointment he felt when Arthur returned from the previous hunt. Arthur had managed to kill a demon, but it wasn't just any demon, either. It was a class A demon with long gruesome fangs and the ability to fly. But Alfred didn't get to see the body; he only saw his brother's smug face when he came home with the cow leather purse full of sparkly silver coins. When he had gone down by the water to the fishery where they kept the bodies on ice before disposal, the owner had smacked him upside the head with a rotting fish and sent him away.

Amelia shook her head, allowing pieces of her hair to fall into her face. She placed her twisted, disease ridden hand on Alfred's back. Her inflamed knuckles dug into his spine in a comforting way, and she spoke in a low voice as he leaned into her parental touch. "Alfie," she said, "please, just go home. I'm sure Matthew needs help with the garden. He's too weak to till all the dirt by himself; he'll probably be too tired to plant all the seeds, too. Why don't you go and be his hero?"

With the thought of being a hero dancing around the front of his mind, Alfred nodded and snaked through the crowd without a second thought. He rushed down the few short dirt streets to his family's corner home.

The wooden building had been built by his late father years before he was born. At the time, his parents were only expecting to have one child due to complications after Arthur's delivery, so Amelia's husband built a strong house with only two bedrooms– the larger one was the only room upstairs and would house their marriage bed. It was only once Amelia learned she was miraculously with child again that her husband switched the rooms. When the twins arrived, they shared a room with the seven year old Arthur upstairs, and Amelia and her husband squished themselves into the smaller room downstairs.

There had been intentions of expanding the house; extra land from the plot behind the house was bought and cleared. However, before construction could begin, Death took away the family's provider in one foul swoop. The claws of a monster, of a demon, tore both the man and the family limb from limb, leaving nothing but scraps to be found. The sorrow that over fell Amelia and Arthur was a great feat that left their hearts empty with want of their loss. The land was left untouched for five years until the middle child, Matthew, had the idea to turn the area into a garden. With crop prices rising and Amelia's pay remaining as steady as the sea, they had no other options. Some of the money from Arthur's kill went into buying a hoe and a watering can and an assortment of healthy seeds.

Alfred ran through the house, not stopping as he knocked down a pan from the kitchen counter. Without a doubt, he'd be scolded later, but it was just one pan. Even if Amelia made him clean the whole kitchen as punishment, picking it up wouldn't be a problem for him. Arthur insured the house remained in near immaculate condition already. Alfred giggled as he pictured his brother pitching a fit over the lone misplaced cooking utensil. The garden was just through the other side of the kitchen, and he only came to a tumbling halt after he tripped on the wooden hoe. He fell, face first, into the fresh brown mulch; he pulled himself up, gagging and cursing under his breath.

"Mama wouldn't like to hear you swearing; she wouldn't like it one bit." Matthew was sitting on a stout stool, hunching over and breathing heavily. Beads of sweat slipped down his face and made his honey hair stick to his skin; to Alfred, it looked like he was ready to lay down and keel over right then and there.

"The last thing we need," Alfred thought with a silly, lopsided smile, "is for Matthew of all people to die on us. He'd come back and haunt us for not getting this garden done." He stopped for a moment to consider what type of spectral being he'd make. "I'd be an awesome ghost. I'd scare away all the thieves from the village and chase all the demons back into the mountains! Arthur'd just try to clean everything, even if he were dead."

Alfred puffed out his chest, still grinning like mad and unconcerned with his previous train of thought. "What Mama don't know won't hurt her, right?"

Matthew frowned. "Mama wouldn't like to hear lies, either." He forced himself to stand, grunting as he did so. "Why are you here? Mama said you were going to wait for Arthur to come back. I thought you were going to be gone all day."

"Don't sound so hopeful," Alfred said with a small laugh to show that he was joking. He shifted his weight from side to side before sighing. "Mama, she sent me back. All she did was let me watch Arthur enter the mist, and then she got all serious. She told me to be your hero for the day and help out with the garden." He picked up the hoe to show his enthusiasm.

Under Matthew's careful guidance, they managed to finish plowing the garden. Matthew had to admit, Alfred's lines were much straighter than his own– Alfred was able to do a row without stopping while he had to take a handful of breaks in order to keep his strength up. To celebrate their accomplishment, they plopped down next to each other to share a honey bun. It was a rare gift Arthur had bought for them with the remains of the money from his last hunt. They tore the treat as evenly as they could, but some how Alfred ended up with a noticeably larger share.

They tore at the sweet goo, letting the succulent bread melt in their mouths. Alfred was mumbling something about being in Nirvana when they heard a commotion. It was a dull roar (honestly Alfred wasn't sure they were really hearing anything at all), but soon, the dull hum turned into panicked shouts and loud empty sobs. The mob was moving steadily toward their house, of that much they were sure.

Stuffing the rest of his snack into his mouth, Alfred grabbed Matthew and pulled him into the house just as the front door was kicked in from outside. The wooden door collapsed to the side. The fish merchant's eldest son stormed into the house. With one powerful arm, he pushed everything off of the family's dining table, sending Alfred's bowl from that morning onto the floor. "Quick. Bring him inside," he said.

More men poured into their miniscule kitchen, knocking things over and tracking thick mud onto the floor, making Alfred think, "Arthur's going to be pissed." A group of men came in carrying a stretcher. They laid it out on top of the table; even men entered despite the lack of available space, and with them, they brought a hysterical Amelia.

Alfred never got the full scene; it came in flashes as he saw between the gaps in the constant movement of the men. Had he seen the full sight, he may have vomited right there in front of everyone. On the stretcher, laid out like a fish waiting to be gutted, was Arthur. His shirt had been ripped open; only strips of it remained around his body, but one of the sleeves was mostly intact. Blood gushed out from vibrant red gashes in his chest with a sick rhythmic pattern, staining his skin a dark pink. As someone tried to wipe away the blood, Alfred could see specks of white bone exposed to the world. Red trickled out of his mouth. Every few moments, a low unearthly gurgle would rise from his throat; it would grow stronger into a sobbing moan only to be chocked back down his throat.

His head was tilted back. Jaw slacked. Eyes opened. Opened, but they didn't see. One of his eyes was tainted red; any green that remained in his iris was clouded over in a minty haze. The red bubbled and oozed as if it was alive. It sizzled and hissed, warming of some burning poison. The other eye was in a similar state, but the red had yet to take over the whole orb. His pupil was dilated, and the eye rolled in its socket without concern to any damage it may be taking.

"Get the children out of here."

The twins found themselves pushed out of their house, back into the garden. Behind them, a man covered the doorway with a thick blanket that acted as a makeshift door. Alfred stared at the dark blanket, thinking of how they weren't able to afford a door, so Amelia had to make the sliding blanket contraption to keep rain outside. It looked ridiculous, in Alfred's opinion. It was such an ugly blanket; it was the only material from Amelia's work that could never sell. And since it wasn't good enough for others, it went to them. The poor family.

"-fred. Alfred," Matthew said, trying to get the other boy's attention. "Alfred, please say something." Matthew placed a trembling hand on his shoulder, only to be shaken off. Matthew's eyes watered, and withing moments, tears were falling freely.

Alfred glared at the sky; his fingers balled into fists at his sides. "It isn't fair."

"What isn't?"

"This," Alfred said, raising a hand and gesturing to the dirt, the fence, and finally the sky. "None of this is fair." His body shook, whether it was from fear or anger wasn't clear. "Arthur, he never did anything wrong. He did nothing, and how does the world repay him?" As if on cue, one of Arthur's louder sobs broke through the noise. Once the cry was subdued, Alfred continued, "he doesn't deserve any of this."

His arm fell back to his side. He turned away from Matthew and the house, so he was facing the farthest fence that marked the end of the family's property. His voice was softer now, but it trembled less. "The world isn't fair. Bad things happen to good people, and evil doers get away with their actions without punishment." It was an understatement, Alfred knew, but in his youth and folly, his mind couldn't grasp the full extent of what he was trying to verbalize. He had only hit the tip; he couldn't even begin to dream of the gargantuan iceberg beneath his feet.

Matthew licked his lips but didn't dare to look away from his brother. "What can you do about it? You can't change the world, Al. Not by yourself."

"You might be right," Alfred said, nodding his head just the slightest. He looked over his shoulder and shot Matthew a tight-lipped smile, saying, "but that's not going to stop me."


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. **

**A/N:** There are action scenes in this chapter, and I can't write them to save my life. If you have any tips, please share them with me. Enjoy reading!

Chapter One

Alfred took a shaky breath and pressed the wooden door open; the aging hinges screamed as they moved, announcing his arrival. He placed a single foot inside the kitchen and scanned the room. In the past years, the kitchen had been slowly revolting against any attempts to keep it descent. Crumbs of bread and small pieces of other foods went unswayed underneath the table and chairs; dishes sat stacked tall near the blackened sink; scraps of cloth from Amelia's work littered the floor, forgotten and fading. The hutch was overflowing with random garbage: a spade, an old bouquet of dried flowers, white fish bones, a handful of nails, old seeds that wouldn't grow, the hilt of a broken sword, yellowed newspaper, an old and cracked cow leather coin purse, etc...

Standing in the corner, staring silently at the pile of dishes, was Amelia. Time wasn't kind to her; in the eighteen years since the twins were born, she had aged several lifetimes. Her skin was cracked and roughened by years of hard work and mind-numbing stress. Her fingers were mangled; how she managed to use a needle anymore was some small miracle granted by a merciful god. The only relief offered for her burning joints was a medication that was both rare and expensive. Once the twins had managed to scrape together just enough money to give her the ointment for her birthday; the following three months she spent relatively painless (or so she said; Alfred would sometimes catch her holding her hands to her chest and cringing).

Worn and misplaced, Amelia fit perfectly in the disastrous kitchen.

Alfred shut the door behind him and went to her. "Mama," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, "I went down to the fish market. I talked to Ludwig." He turned her; his stomach tightened when he met her once beautiful green eyes. He licked his lips and continued. "I asked him to let me join them. I begged him, Mama."

She blinked, slowly. "And?"

A slight smile crossed Alfred's tanned face. "He said he'll let me on the next hunt."

The ghost of a smile crept across Amelia's lips, and she pulled her much taller son into a weak hug. It was the greatest expression of joy she could offer. "Oh, Alfie," she said, digging her nails into his shirt. She released him but kept him at arm's end, holding his wrists. "We might just make it through after all, Alfie. Thank the gods."

"Thank Ludwig," Alfred said, laughing and shaking his head. "He wanted to do nothing more than hit me with a fish, just like his dad would have, but I kept at him. Even he has to admit I handle a sword better than most."

Amelia nodded. "Yes, we must thank Ludwig."

"And why must we thank him?"

Both Alfred and Amelia flinched. They turned on their heels to face where the voice came from.

The primeval blanket that separated the kitchen from the garden was bunched up and held to the side. Standing in the threshold, Arthur used his free hand to grip the door frame. He dared not take a step forward nor a step back; neither were guaranteed safe footing. Nothing was guaranteed for Arthur.

He was a shorter but lean man; his hair was a bright blond and matched his skin tone perfectly. Arthur would have been an attractive twenty-five year old if it weren't for what happened ten years prior. His once clear skin was marred with scars– some were nothing more than small raised scratches, but other crossed his skin at great lengths, turning the skin into a strange uneven landscape. Chunks of the muscle on his torso had been removed forcibly, and he was lucky to be able to walk at all thanks to the damage to his left femur.

But all of those defects weren't visible; they weren't the worst of them either. His eyes had, no doubt, received the brunt of the demon's cruelty. A corrosive stomach acid had destroyed one eye completely. If he were to open it, all one would see was a mass of white scar tissue. The other eye fared a tad better. Arthur would say, on good days, that he could see hazy shapes and some diluted colors. Some of his green iris still showed among the white, and that was all the proof the family had to take as proof of his claims.

"Well?" Arthur was aimed ahead, facing the front door. He had no idea that the two were only a foot to his left. "Why must we thank Ludwig? Did the bastard give us free fish?"

"No, he didn't," Amelia said, looking down at the dusty floorboards. She didn't have to in her heart to look at her oldest child for longer than a few rueful breaths. Each time she saw him, the wound in her chest was forced open again by unseen, prodding fingers; with each passing day, her invisible injury was growing. Soon, Alfred feared it would swallow her whole. She looked to him; her eyes begged for him to change the topic.

Alfred sucked in his breath and went to his brother. "I'm going on the next hunt."

Arthur's body tensed. His grip on the blanket tightened, and he turned to Alfred with a frightening accuracy. If he only moved his head up, he would be face-to-face with his younger brother. "You're what?" Arthur asked. His voice was unnaturally even and cold; his tone made Alfred begin to sweat. There was only one right answer to his question, but there was no way Alfred could mutter the words.

His lips trembled. "We need the money, Arthur."

"The money?" Arthur raised a fist, but with no safe place to direct his anger, it returned to the door frame with a sharp knock. "The money, huh? What about you're life? Isn't that more important than a few pieces of silver?"

Alfred made a small, exasperated sigh. "We can't go on like this. I make peanuts down at the lumbar yard, and Mama can't keep doing this. She's going to work herself to death one day, and I'm afraid that day's just around the corner. Matthew can't go get a job either. Not only is his body too weak, but he has to take care of-" He bit his tongue as his eyes went wide. "-of the garden. He has to take care of the garden. Just the garden. Nothing else."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"The garden, huh?" Arthur finally said. Acid dripped in his voice, stinging the ears of whoever hear it. He nodded once. "It's too damn bad about that worthless garden. If only you didn't have to deal with it, then your life would just be peachy, right? No more worries, no more averting your eyes from those hideous green things. Hell, if I were gone, Matthew could bring that Gilbert over, and you could bring who ever the hell you wanted without being embarrassed."

"Did we ever say we were embarrassed by you? No we haven't; we-"

"Shove it, you git. I hear what goes unsaid. I know how all the people just stand outside the door, afraid to take a step in just in case I'm there. Even you hesitate whenever I'm around. I hear your footstep slow. I hear it! I hear every single damn thing!" By this point, Arthur's calm had morphed into a torrid anger. His face was painted an aggressive red, and again, his fist clenched and unclenched just wanting to strike at something.

He growled, low and dangerous. "You know what, Alfred? Go, go on your hunt. It'll be one less mouth to feed," he said, cutting through Alfred's marrow and freezing it with an icy precision. Arthur turned shakily back outside. His steps were small, but when Matthew came to his side, he was able to walk as a non-cripple would.

Amelia and Alfred stood without speaking or moving. They simply followed Arthur with their eyes and tried to deny all he had said.

Morning moved in with its usual slow grace, unaware that the day was any different from the last or the next. Before the sun even began to peak its face from over the bay, the typical people were up and about. The baker and his wife had prepared two dozen loafs of bread; their scent mixed in with the breeze, creating the strange concoction of yeast, fish, and an godly amount of salt. Gilbert, who had long since retired from his hunting days, was out on the bay, working to bring in a descent number of fish for the following few days. The previous hall had been nothing to write home about. There ended up being more customers than fish, and Ludwig was forced to sort the issue out since Gilbert was what most would call a smart business man. Down the coast near the larger oak trees, the lumbar mill was silent; most of the workers were on the opposite end of the village, ready to embark on the hunt. Those who were too old or too weak or too weak stomached to handle the hunt enjoyed their monthly day off.

Normally, Alfred was one of those men, lounging in bed until after noon and basking in his laziness; this month, he was one of the ones standing before the mist. His clothes felt too small; he pulled at his hide shirt, trying to breath. He had to borrow Gilbert's old set, and the albino had a slightly larger build than Alfred, so why was his armor so tight? Alfred's sword was heavy in its hilt and weighed down his hip. He shifted his weight to that hip, to relieve the pressure, but he only was successful in stumbling the the side.

It was a cool morning, but he was sweating. He could feel the beads of salty liquid slipping down his temple; every part of his seemed to be covered in a layer of perspiration. He thought, "if I try to draw my sword, it just might fly out of my hands." He tried to imagine the sight, but instead of what should have been a comical sight, he pictured the sword digging into the flesh of someone he knew. He pictured that person laid on their back, gasping for breath and screaming from the pain. He saw them losing their eyes over and over again.

His stomach lurched. He made it to a bush in time; only small pieces of semi-digested bread splashed back onto his boots. They were brown and orange spots against his tan boots. "Did Arthur ever feel like this?" A hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump.

Alfred was a fine sized fellow– tall with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a fair set a muscles from his time in the lumbar mill– however, when compared to the beast that was Ludwig, he may as well have been a lightweight. Ludwig was built for hard physical labor, and he thrived in it. He worked at his family's fishery with his brother, but he also worked with Alfred in the mill, doing the jobs requiring the heaviest lifting. He could be seen fixing a roof or building a house for a new family, because he was truly a jack of all trades. Above all, Ludwig was a hunter. His skills made others cower with jealously and respect; he had the most kills of anyone in the village, after all. Another skill of his that made him vital to the village was his insurance that anyone who hunted with him would return home alive.

It was Ludwig who instilled the new hunting laws a little over four years before. He saw the flaws in the village's hunting system (or the absence of a hunting system). On his own, he devised hunting formations that promised a kill when executed correctly, and he built teams based on the hunter's individual strength. Before, hunters went solo in order to maximize their income at the sacrifice of their safety; Ludwig made solo hunting obsolete with his system, so deaths had dropped at a miraculous rate in only four short years.

"First hunt jitters will only inspire you," he said, giving Alfred a strong look. To say Ludwig was unwilling to let the younger join the hunt was an understatement. He saw Alfred was strong, but he had no control or patience. Both qualities made an effective hunter. In order to balance out Alfred's greenhorn faults, Ludwig placed him in his own group. "I want you to stay in back. Watch out behind you. It isn't uncommon for a demon to use the trees to get over and behind us. Do you understand?"

Alfred let out a nervous laugh and gave the other a playful punch to the shoulder. "I got this. And who has the jitters? I probably just ate some moldy bread. No problemo," he said, laughing still.

"Everyone gets them, Alfred. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

His words silenced Alfred. Alfred knew it was lie, too. Everyone knew the story of Ludwig's first hunt. He had only been twelve– twelve! He stood among the men as calm as a cucumber and charged in without a second glance. That day he killed a B rank demon and started his way down the path to success. "I'm sure when I'm twelve years a hunter, I'll be just as confident as you," Alfred thought, bitterly. It really was hard to believe Ludwig was only twenty-four...

He glanced at the gathering crowd. The children were waving and smiling and cheering. He remembered his own days in their place, and his stomach churned. He quickly moved on to searching for Amelia's face among the women. There were many familiar grisly face, but none of them were the one he wanted to see most of all. In the back of his mind, he must have realized she wasn't going to appear; too much she had already lost, and watching what little remained being reduced even further would press on her state of mind too hard.

"Let's move out," Ludwig said to his group. He signaled their mass movement with the flick of his wrist, and as a unit, they entered the mist.

With his spot in the rear of the formation, Alfred was the last to penetrate the monotone wall. Pine trees met him immediately. Their green bristles scratched at his exposed face (for he was unable to wear a helmet thanks to his glasses), and their sappy smell flooded his senses, making him think of sweet syrup and drool. After a few feet, the pines thinned; other seasonal trees mixed in with them, and as it was the highest point of summer, their green leaves created a ceiling above their heads. In the stronger sunlight of noon, the living ceiling would cast down light green light to illuminate the forest, making travel much easier.

In the morning when sunlight was weak, the thick mist was unbroken near the ground and only faded to visible levels around Alfred's clavicle. He couldn't see the bodies of his hunting pack, just their heads and the occasional set of shoulders. He noted the few noises there were to hear; most came from their gear swinging and hitting their backs or thighs as they took their steps. With their pace set to a leisurely speed, Alfred had his doubts of any real danger. "It feels like we're going for a stroll. Any moment now, someone's going to pull out a picnic basket and blanket," he thought with a grin.

"Pay attention, Alfred," Ludwig called from the head of the pack.

He pouted but obeyed. They were still close enough to the village for him to be sent back for misbehaving, and he wasn't willing to press his luck. So, he continued on as serious as the grave. He had to stop his wandering mind several times in order to keep on focus, but it was so hard. The minutes of walking had turned into hours. The sun was high over head, beating down on them between the trees, and the mist had shrunk to a carpet less than an inch thick. They were following the mountain where the mist grew once again, but every time they seemed to begin inclining up, Ludwig redirected them back down slope.

It was like a long boring dance, and Alfred had two left feet.

"Hey, Ludwig," he said in a whining voice, "can we eat soon?" To his pleasant surprise, others echoed his motion, and Ludwig had to give in to the majority's decision. They set up a perimeter, which took a good forty-five minutes; they even had to check the trees in the area. Only once Ludwig gave the okay did the pack collectively sigh and plop down on the ground without an ounce of grace to their movements.

The pack lounged around, eating slowly, for the most part. Ludwig, of course, ate with the same ferocious seriousness that he did everything else. Alfred couldn't help but watch the man as he ate in such a detached manner. "I feel sorry for his lover," Alfred said under his breath. He finished his meal and stretched his arms, enjoying the pleasant pop that came from his joints.

There was a river nearby; he couldn't see it, but its bubbling was clear even with the distance. "It's the same river that feeds into the bay back in the village," someone told him when he mentioned it.

Ludwig took over the conversation from there. "We think it starts in a lake up in the mountains and goes down from there. It's too dangerous to climb the mountain to find out. Too many places for demons to hide, not enough places for us to run." His words sucked away any joy they were feeling thanks to the break.

Alfred sighed out of a combination of boredom and sleepiness. "Uh, Ludwig?"

"What is it now?"

"Can I take a walk?" He was met with a look that could only be described as ultimate disbelief. "Look, I'm not as stupid as you think. I won't go outside the area we cleared, alright? I kind of have to take care of business, if you know what I mean..." It was a lie, but anything was worth getting away from the doom and gloom bunch.

Ludwig groaned, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed after a moment. "You have ten minutes."

Alfred flashed him a bright, wide-tooth smile. "I only need five."

Alfred located the river faster than he thought he would. The river was about seven feet wide, but he could see it widen the further down stream it went. The water rolled lazily and lapped at the sandy banks. The water was crystal clear; it tasted pure and crisp to his dry throat. He drank the water greedily. When he was done, he slipped out of his boots and plunged his sweaty feet into the icy cool liquid. He stayed that way for what felt like an hour, and he only climbed out when he figured Ludwig was ready to kick his ass all the way back to the village.

He certainly didn't expect hunts to be so boring and uneventful. They were hours from the village, and nothing had happened. Where were the powerful demons? Were they smart enough to know not to mess with them anymore? "How...disappointing," he thought, sighing. There was no way they could continue the way they were. At some point they would have to turn around and head back; sure, the women would be happy they returned safe, but how would his family afford to live for the month if they didn't bring something back? Hell, even a deer could get him a few bronze coins.

"Hey, I'm back," he said as he entered their makeshift campsite. To his horror, it was empty. His pack was gone; the only thing that remained was what was left of someone's rucksack leaning against the tree. The hide bag was charred black. It collapsed in on itself when Alfred touched it; some embers still glowed a light orange. "Who started a fire?" He started to notice other scorch marks on trees and the ground. They created a path that led deeper into the forest.

He was about to follow the ash trail when he heard a the thud of a footstep. Another soon followed, but it was clear there was only a single person. They moved without a care in the world, and within a moment, Alfred heard jocund whistling.

"There's no way in hell that's Ludwig," Alfred said to himself. He ducked behind a tree and watched as the unknown person came closer. His hand was gripping the hilt of his sword.

At first, he looked like your average man from the village. He was tall and lean; his clothes accented his body with the focus on his lower body. He had long flowing blond hair that cascaded around his face like a waterfall. Even with the distance, Alfred could see the stranger's bright blue eyes. As the stranger grew closer, his age became more apparent; he was somewhere in his early thirties, maybe late twenties.

"Why the hell is he out here? I don't recognize him. Is he a part of another hunting group?" Alfred thought, holding his breath. "He doesn't have a weapon on him. How is he this far out in demon territory?"

Still retaining the breath in his lungs, he stepped out from behind the tree. He wasn't quite stupid enough to take his hand away from his sword. In fact, the blade was half unsheathed by the time the stranger came to a stop. "Hey, buddy. Any idea what happened here?" Alfred asked. The words came out fast in one long exhale, but it wasn't exactly an appropriate time to be polite. For all he knew, his pack was gone and dead, rotting next to some tree and waiting to be eaten by animals.

The stranger didn't quit his whistling, but he did shift his weight to his heels. His eyes scanned Alfred with the kind of lazy appraisal a woman would give an unimpressive suitor. He clicked his tongue and grinned, showing off his white teeth. "Perhaps I do," he said. It was then Alfred realized the stranger had fangs sticking a good inch out of his mouth; his shock must have shown on his face, because the demon said, "new to this whole demon genocide thing, huh?"

The sword was caught at the end of its sheath. Alfred had the sword bent, but the sheath didn't follow suit. He struggled, trying to pull the blade out at a forty-five degree angle. His heart was pounding against his ribs hard enough that it felt like it was another minute from breaking free of his chest and fleeing. If he thought his sweating earlier was bad, now he was pouring out enough to fill the whole bay. Finally, he managed to pull the sword free, only to find the demon watching him with the same irksome smirk.

"Be honest, human. Do you think you can really beat me on your own when I sent your friends running with their tails between their legs?" the demon asked, raising his arms to shrug in a cocky sort of way. Suddenly, fire sprang to life around his arm, coiling around his elbow and snaking up to his hands where it settled into a breathing ball. The flames licked and danced in the air, ready to shoot away with the slightest encouragement. "I think you'll provide me with a bit more entertainment than the others, though. You're closer to my type," he said with a small wink...

Then he sent a raging ball of demon flames straight at Alfred's face.

Alfred rolled to the side just in time. He felt the heat brushing against his skin, but it had missed by half an inch. The second shot came closer; he hadn't recovered from his first dodge. This one singed his shoulder. The smell of burning leather stung his nose. Luckily, the armor didn't lite up in flames; otherwise, he would have died right there.

He couldn't fight. The demon wouldn't let there be a fight, just a cold blooded murder. There was no way he could get close enough to slide his sword into the demon's ribs; he'd be charred before he got within ten feet. His eyes moved from one tree to the next, trying to make a path to follow. Could he just run randomly? Shit, he didn't know the area. For all he knew there was a cliff just over that row of trees. Or worse, there were more demons lying in wait, watching him and looking for an opening to join the assault.

"Be careful, mon petit serait-être tueur. We wouldn't want you to overwork that small mind of yours," the demon chuckled, starting his easy gait once more. The fire grew so that the flames nearly touched the lowest branches of the tallest trees.

"Shit," Alfred said, backing up. "If it weren't for that fire, you wouldn't have the upper hand. If I had a damn sprinkling can, you would be dead already." This quip only made the demon laugh, but in its own special way, it made Alfred's mind press out one final effort for survival. His eyes widened. His jaw dropped. "The river..."

The demon's laughing stopped, and his face adopted a scowl. "Don't make this anymore trouble than it has to be, mon hom-"

Alfred had already turned around and was tearing through the trees. Despite having located the river within minutes before, now he was having difficulties. The sound of the tumbling water was all around him, it seemed, and the exact direction of the source was spinning around his head, toying with his fears and morphing them into panic. When another fireball almost hit him, he simply ran forward, unable to care whether it was the right way or not. Any distance between him and the pyromaniac was an ally.

The river came up on him before he realized it. The water engulfed him quickly, freezing him thoroughly. He kept himself underwater for a moment, giving himself time to think. He couldn't go down stream. Any chance of the demon reaching the village came from him chasing Alfred that far; plus, Alfred didn't have any idea whether the river branched off or not. For all he knew, he could end up in a demon village if he didn't follow the right stream. Going up the mountain would be difficult. Fighting the current was asking to be drained of any and all energy, but the higher the altitude, the less oxygen there would be for the demon to light him up.

His lungs gave in and forced him to surface. He broke through the water and breathed in deeply, and as he turned to see where the demon was, he was met by a bright burning flame. He ducked again into the water. His left cheek stung, and the icy water was only irritating it further. Blood mixed into the water; it didn't have time to spread before being pulled downstream.

The air in his body was running out faster than he wanted. His lungs screamed at him, begging to go up and take in that delicious forest air. With the last of his oxygen reserves, he drew his sword and propelled himself out of the water. He saw the amusement in the demon's eyes. He saw the hate welling up in the demon's bitter grin. He saw that the demon was knee deep in the water, ready to strike.

Alfred swung at him without aim.

The demon took an effortless step back, not bothered by the resistance from the water. He wrapped his clawed hands around the shaft of the sword; the metal only broke through the first layer of skin. It didn't even make the demon bleed. The demon stepped up to Alfred and gripped the teenager's jaw in his free hand. "Nice try." The demon examined Alfred's face, and his gaze was trained on the oozing burn. "Looking at you, you are surprisingly close to my ideal. You wouldn't happen to have any siblings? Even a parent would be fine," he said, grinning. "I just need a taste to make sure."

His tongue darted along Alfred's cheek, making him squirm. The organ was too warm and too wet; somehow it felt violating. The demon shut his eyes and left out a soft sigh, "close, so close." His eyes rolled open as he licked his lips. "The piquancy is almost there. A little aging, and you'd perfect. Absolutely perfect." The demon's smile was bestial and wild; any playfulness had evaporated.

"Fuck off," Alfred said. He lunged his head forward, catching the demon off guard, and nailed his head against the demon's. The demon tumbled back and fell into the water, freeing Alfred in the process. Alfred's vision spun for a moment. He stumbled forward, almost fell, and caught himself before he followed the demon's example. He wobbled out of the river and started stripping. Gilbert's now burnt armor was discarded and tossed against the nearest tree, and Alfred's water filled boots soon joined the shirt. His pants clung to his legs as did his under shirt, so he didn't bother with them. Instead, he glanced back at the demon once and began his trek up the mountain.

It took the demon ten minutes to regain conscientiousness. He was a good twenty or so feet downstream from where he lost his prey; he didn't need to follow the boy's scent to know that he was long gone. He had lost the other group of humans, too. "It is not my day," he sighed, shaking his head. He was soaking wet and cold; his flames wouldn't come to life no matter how hard he tried, he was just too drenched. There was some blood on his forehead from the headbutt heard around the world, but a lick told him it wasn't his.

He relished the flavor again, only to groan when the sweet morsel was gone. "I could go after the boy and keep him for awhile. Just until he's ripe." He stared up the mountain. It towered overhead, but it wasn't a steep slope. It was gentle, slowly rising to its monstrous height. Behind it, more mountains joined to form a nearly impenetrable range. "It isn't worth the risk," he said to himself, "not with that monster up there."

The boy's scent was still strong over the area. He traced it back to the campsite where he first frightened away the group. From there, he followed it down slope; he only lost the trail twice. The smell of humans was hard to miss that deep into demon territory. The only thought that kept his feet moving as noon pressed on to evening was the possible promise of the boy having relatives more ready for the taking.


End file.
